Crossed (Never After Series)

I  HOP OFF THE BUS AT THE EDGE OF CARNIVAL

Street, heading around the corner to where the Chapel sits, the strip club I’ve danced at for the past three years. A bright purple cross—shattered in the middle— flickers above gold neon lights, like a homing beacon for the depraved to gather.

The club itself is two towns over in Coddington Heights, about an hour away from Festivalé. Close enough to get to but far enough to maintain anonymity without too much worry.

That’s not because I’m ashamed of what I do— quite the opposite, really. I just can’t risk Parker finding out where I work. If he knows, he’ll ruin it, just to make me depend on him more.

And that’s not something I want to deal with.

But I love exotic dancing.

I enjoy seeing the lust in people’s eyes when they watch me onstage, using the hollow steel pole as a blank canvas while I paint my body around it like a brushstroke. And I especially like the way it feels to control my sexuality, bleeding money from the people who come to watch. Counting and wrapping the stacks of bills at the end of the night sends a rush through me, one that feels a hell of a lot like success— no matter how fleeting the feeling is. I’ve been objectified for as long as I can remember, puberty hitting me early and showcasing just how little people care for a girl’s age as long as she’s aesthetically pleasing to their baser instincts. It’s one of the many reasons my own mother was a piece of shit. She was a bitter woman, one who couldn’t handle both an autistic son she never wanted and a well-endowed daughter who garnered more attention simply by existing.

If it was random people on the street, she got annoyed. When it was the men she’d bring to our home, she’d get jealous.

When I was young, the subtle jokes and leering glances made me afraid. But once I became a nineteen-year- old left to care for myself and Quinten, I learned that it’s women with the real power, only most women don’t realize it. I did. I mastered how to utilize everything in my arsenal, so now I’m the one in control. At least in all the areas that I can be.

It’s the main reason why I don’t date. Have zero interest in the opposite sex, actually. I’ve spent my entire life witnessing what happens when you get close with a man through the lens of my mother, and it’s always the same.

Hearts in the eyes, can’t eat, can’t sleep kind of infatuation. Flowers and gifts and “Oh, this time, it’s different, baby girl. He’s the one.”

Then come the sharp words, the bitter fights, the sound of fists hitting faces. The late- night crying and the need to have your daughter take care of you instead of the other way around.

And then, finally, the disappearance. Packing up and leaving when you realize the man you fell for isn’t the man you thought he was at all.

My mother was a nomad at heart, and it was damn near impossible for her to stay still long enough to dig her heels into the ground. The second she started to sink in too deeply, she’d rip herself away, and I was the unfortunate luggage that got dragged along while she looked for something that always seemed just out of reach.

I wonder if she’s still searching now that she’s been without us.

Realistically, she’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere, suffocated by her vices or one of the men she claimed to love.

When I was little, I’d pretend that I was a lost princess, stolen away from my castle and toted from place to place, hidden away on purpose so my fictional parents, ones who would love me right, wouldn’t be able to track me down. It was comforting, thinking there were people out there desperate to find me. As I got older, I stopped seeking out my imagination and started watching my mother instead. Easier to be prepared that way.

Similar to religion, her patterns never changed.

When her smile started to thin and the flowers turned into ice packs, I knew it was time to leave.

Chantelle Paquette could only take so much abuse, only get in so deep with the men she thought loved her, before she’d sneak us off in the night like criminals slipping through metal bars. Another city. Another man. Same neglectful parenting.

But experience shapes us whether we’d like it to or not, and the experiences she gave me were valuable lessons.

I learned to not plant roots when you wouldn’t be around to tend to the soil.

How to care for my brother by remembering all the ways I wished she had cared for me.

Most importantly, I learned not to trust anyone who says they love you, because in the end, they always love themselves the most.

And despite all that, despite me seeing it happen with her time and time again, I never in all my life thought she would leave me.

But things changed once she had Quinten.

I shake the memories away. I’ll never be like her.

My ratty black high- tops crunch on the gravel in the parking lot of the club, and I head toward the employee entrance that’s situated in the back, my leggings, ball cap, and oversize hoodie engulfing me in its fabric.

Benny, one of the bouncers, is standing outside, his bulky frame and curly hair casting a shadow from the yellow streetlamp hovering above the door. There’s not much to watch, but there is a back alley that’s hidden from the exterior cameras and connects to the main street, so usually someone’s out here just to make sure nothing goes awry.

He gives me a nod and moves, unlatching the door handle so I can slip inside.

I smile my thanks before the door latches behind me, and I head down the hallway, the shiny linoleum floors squeaking beneath my sneakers as I head into the back room.

The other dancers are lounging around, each one taking up their own vanity, adjusting themselves as they either rest between their sets or get ready. I know most of them by appearance, but that’s it. I’m not sure I’d notice them on the street, and in any case, none of them are chummy with me.

I haven’t tried to get to know them. I’m not here to socialize.

Quinten’s therapy is expensive, and between the astronomical price of insurance, trying to keep the lights on, and everything else in my life, I need all the money I can get. These women are my competition as much as I’d like them not to be. Most of them are tight- knit with one another, and I ache for that type of camaraderie.

The only person I’ve found it with is Dalia, and she doesn’t work here anymore.

So I keep my head down and focus on what matters.

I drop my bag in one of the small gray lockers that line the back wall and spin the lock I clicked into place, making sure my belongings are safe.

When I turn, Phillip, the owner, is waltzing through, and I give him a tiny wave as he moves past me to talk with one of the other girls.

Out of all the men I’ve ever known, he has to be the one I hate the least. He gave me a job when no one else would, and when I wanted to stop being a cocktail waitress and learn pole, he hooked me up with the best dancer—Dalia— and had her give me lessons while he footed the bill. He pretended like he was simply being nice, but I’m not naive enough to truly believe that. I know that most likely it was because he saw potential and thought I’d be a worthy investment. Either way, I appreciate what he’s done. Pole dancing is my outlet. Besides, he lets me use the empty studio he owns on the other side of town to dance on my days off, and that alone is worth its weight in gold.

He’s not necessarily attractive in the classic sense, with his spiked- up blond hair, fair skin, and muddy brown eyes. He has a softer jawline than most, and I stare down at him when I wear stage heels, but he’s bulky, and I like a man who makes me feel safe without being overpowering.

Like I said, I don’t enjoy losing control.

He moves right past me, not sparing me a single glance, and I ignore the way a slight pinch of jealousy hits me when he stops and grins at another one of the dancers. Not because I want his attention on me but because there’s a familial type of energy with everyone in the club, one that I’m excluded from. The same way I’m excluded back in Festivalé.

Gritting my teeth, I internally smack the shit out of myself and move to an open vanity.

It’s time to transform from Amaya to Esmeralda.

Twenty minutes later, I’m done, my raven-black hair hidden beneath a red wig that cascades down to my hips, secured by tape and bobby pins, purple- colored contacts, and full makeup, my long sparkly lashes brushing against the undersides of my eyes every time I blink. And when I finally waltz out to the main stage, the DJ’s voice booming out my introduction, I become someone else entirely.

I feel sensual as I move across the raised platform and around the pole, slowly stripteasing, allowing the eroticism of the moment to blend with the artistry of my craft. I imagine my energy as a pulsing red color, pouring out and covering the entire area, drawing everyone’s eyes and, more importantly, dollars to me.

Losing myself in the moment, my mind floats away, all my worries and troubles ceasing to exist as the power of holding attention cascades down my limbs and around my nearly naked form, infusing me with confidence and sensuality.

But then something sharp and hot pierces through the hazy numbness, my eyes popping open and swinging across the main floor.

My heart stutters in my chest when my gaze locks on a dark figure in the back corner, behind the plush couches with table service. He’s leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets and his body turned toward me. I can’t make out any features—other than the fact that he towers over everyone else—but his face is covered by the brim of an old-school black hat, like he’s some type of 1920s mafioso, and the rest of him is enshrouded in the shadows. And somehow, I know like I know anything that he’s the reason for the heat currently slicing through my calm.

I shake my head and look away, not liking the way it feels, and scan the eager faces near the front of the stage instead. I reach above me and grip the pole, sliding my ass down the metal until I’m squatting with my legs parted in invitation.

A stocky man with slicked- back blond hair and a pinched nose is front and center, and my stomach somersaults violently when I recognize him. I lose my footing, stumbling enough to feel a small tug in my ankle.

Parker Errien.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Panic jumps along my nerves and my palms grow clammy as I straighten and continue with the rest of my set, my fingers slipping on the pole, making my movements appear sloppy and unsure. I grit my teeth, rushing through the last few moments of my dance, and the second it ends, I jerk forward, grabbing my clothes and the few bills thrown on the stage before hobbling off. I don’t stop, don’t think, don’t breathe until my back hits the wall in the employee hall, my limbs shaking.

I don’t think he recognized me but Jesus.

What the hell is he doing here?

I peek back around the hallway once my heart calms down and scan the main floor, anxiety tormenting my mind with what- if questions. It’s a risk to walk out there and try for private dances because I really don’t want him to recognize me, but my need for money wins the battle.

Besides, if he does, I’ll just explain that he’s part of the reason I need the cash in the first place. Cringing, I visualize how that outcome would go. Probably the same as last time I tried telling him I wasn’t paying off my mother’s bullshit debt, and the cat that I had rescued two months earlier, one that Quinten had grown severely attached to, showed up dead with its head severed and placed in our mailbox. I found random pieces throughout the week, slipped into air vents in our home, underneath the cupboard, beneath the slats of my bed.

Bile rises in my throat as I remember the realization that Parker was far more dangerous than I gave him credit for. That the businessman front was just the tip of the iceberg. That he could come into my home anytime, and there was no way I could keep him out.

And then he proved that to be true a month later when he decided to take what he wanted from me without my consent.

My throat grows dry as I think of what he’ll do next time I decide to disagree.

Blowing out a deep breath, I stiffen my shoulders, shaking my fake red hair until it tickles the middle of my back, and I make my way onto the floor, making sure to keep to the edges in case I need to hide myself away.

It isn’t until a gust of hot air whispers along the back of my neck, goose bumps sprouting along the length of my arms, that I realize just how distracted I am. And then a voice rumbles, so deep and commanding that I swear to God it vibrates through my bones.

“Hello, petite pécheresse.”